


Pomade and Memories

by a_genderfluid_otter



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Flashbacks, Haircuts, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7487418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_genderfluid_otter/pseuds/a_genderfluid_otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The long mess that it is currently is not how Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th wore his hair. It’d been coifed and clean, short in most regards. Bucky remembers he’d been proud of it, always fussing with it. Becca had complained, his ma had complained. He could also style it without even looking. Muscle memory. He raises a hand up to his hair, tugging fingers through it before making the first cut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pomade and Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that time that Irene debated roleplaying her son so she wrote a minificlet as an entrance piece? Me too.

The mid-afternoon sun is oppressive to the point that Bucky feels a weight on his chest every time that he takes a breath. He can count the beads of sweat that roll down the back of his neck before soaking into the fabric of his grey t-shirt, drops falling consistent like the beat of a metronome. Folks around him are in as few layer as humanly possible while Bucky is bundled up like he’s expecting the first snow. Honestly, he’ll take the strange looks for his appearance rather than deal with the aftermath of folks seeing the metal hand currently stuffed into the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt. 

He usually saves trips like this for when it’s evening so that he doesn’t bake inside of his sweatshirt. However, the shortage of milk coupled with the fact almost everything he eats _requires_  milk forces him into the outdoors. 

Even in spite of the heat, it is a nice day. It’s cloudless, the sky a blue rich enough that it looks like open sea. He remembers that it was the kind of day that he liked being on the docks for so many years ago. With the ocean water coming fresh to the shore, the smell of salt cleansing deep to the lungs, it felt good to be alive. Now everything smells like exhaust and concrete, though even Bucky can’t be too angry with that. New York is evolving the way that it always has; new buildings, new people, new smells. There was a strange comfort in the knowledge that the world still moved on. 

With the constant change, the constant construction, Bucky isn’t surprised anymore to walk outside and see entirely different buildings. There was one place that had been boarded up for _months_  that Bucky suddenly walked past one day to see a line completely down the block for it (a Swedish bakery, he late found out). The newest addition is an office building of some sort, black glass windows framing the monstrosity as high as the eye can see; it might as well be a modern Babel. But more than the sudden appearance of the building, what catches him is the sight of his own reflection in the black glass. He takes a step closer, dark hair peeking out from beneath the edge of his hood, evidently escaped from the ratty bun he’d thrown it into that morning. 

He owns a mirror, but he tries not to look at his face for long. It’s unnerving some days. He honestly can’t count the number of times he’s been to the Smithsonian, stood in front of Captain Rogers’ history, stood in front of his own. He sees faces and facts he should know off of the top of his head, but it feels like he’s reading the information for the first time almost every time that he goes. He and Steve had been best friends, Bucky had grown up in Brooklyn, he’d been drafted into the army rather than joined, the Howling Commandoes had been some of his closest friends—things that hardly clicked in Bucky’s head. But he can’t forget the way that James Buchanan Barnes looks. And every time he stares at his reflection for more than a moment, he feels an uneasiness settle in him. 

For a few minutes more, Bucky stands there and tugs absently at his hair until the hair tie falls out and drops somewhere down the back of his shirt. Blue eyes dart to the end of the street where the corner store sits, thinking. After a moment, he pulls his hood up further onto his head before mentally adding a second item to the list. 

…

He shoulders his way into the small apartment. It ain’t much, a dingy collection of mismatched furniture and broken appliances that costs scraps to rent (which is a blessing when Bucky can barely earn scraps most days). But the fridge works, the fan provides a bearable circulation of air, and the collection of blankets and pillows on the boxspring is something to crash on. The milk goes into the fridge where it always does—second shelf on the inside all the way in the back—and he takes the scissors into the bathroom. 

The light takes a moment to come on, then Bucky is just left standing there, staring at hollow eyes and gaunt cheeks, a firm jaw clenched in resignation. He remembers a lot of things some days and less others. From the shreds he manages to cling onto, he knows that James Buchanan Barnes was once a looker, that getting dates was as easy as a cocky grin and a drawl that came low and thick from his lips. He remembers that once upon a time he’d been called the ‘best looking guy in Brooklyn’ though he’s long since forgotten to whose mouth those words belonged. Now, James Buchanan Barnes can hardly remember that he _is_  James Buchanan Barnes. What he _does_  remember is very recent—cold, metal, electric, crimson, blue, blond, plums. The last is more recent than anything else. The few weeks past, he’d been doing research. One moment, it was current events, what exactly he’d missed in seventy years of being a defrosted-refrosted chicken, the next is was memory-loss cures. There were procedures and injections and medications, recommendations to walk every day or to sit around and ruminate, eat nuts, don’t eat nuts, eat prunes, eat nothing, read books, remember forget-- But the one common denominator seemed to be putting yourself in familiar things. Clothes you like, food you like, friends who know you inside and out. He doesn’t have a lot of those things on hand, but… 

Bucky stares down at the scissors in his hand before looking up at the mess of dark hair on his scalp once more. It is cleaner than it’s been in years, soft even, because Bucky always has been a sucker for the simpler pleasures. But the long mess that it is currently is not how Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th wore his hair. It’d been coifed and clean, short in most regards. Bucky remembers he’d been proud of it, always fussing with it. Becca had complained, his ma had complained. He could also style it without even looking. Muscle memory. He raises a hand up to his hair, tugging fingers through it before making the first cut. 

 

 _He shifted his body back and forth in what would be considered a frankly_ terrible _attempt at a side-step. But even despite the disaster of footwork he was doing, his hands remained steady. Laughter as careless as stream water sounded as he felt hands at his back._

_“Bucky, move!”_

_“Sorry, am I in your way? Oh, so sorry, so sorry, you’ll have to—“ Bucky stepped right back in front of her, shoulders hunched forward to block her view of the mirror. Becca Barnes let out the most indignant noise that an eleven year-old could make, drumming her hands as hard as she could against his back._

_“Ma! He’s hogging the mirror again!” Every word was punctuated with a beat of her hands on his back, Bucky laughing._

_“Ain’t not!” he hollered back, the scissors dropping off what strands had grown just a little too long. “Besides, I’m the one with a date, not her!”_

_“I’m going to meet friends,” whined Becca, pushing harder at Bucky’s hip, though he didn’t move an inch._

_“James! Rebecca! Don’t make me come up there!”_

_The pair of them exchanged looks for a moment, Becca clenching her jaw to the point her little lips were pursed like a fish. After a moment, Bucky dropped his shoulders, stepping back a pace to let Becca into the space between him and the mirror._

_“Brat.”_

_“Jerk.”_

_“Hey, hey. A proper lady shouldn’t be using words like that. Going to ruin your reputation talking like that. You kiss our ma goodnight with that mouth?” Bucky smirked down at her, tapping her shoulder with the backend of his comb._

_“Bucky, shove off!”_

_“Excuse you!” Becca let out a squeal when Bucky wrapped his arms around her waist, hauling her half up and over his shoulder, one hand pinning her against him and the other attacking the space of her ribs. “Who do you think you are talking to me like that? Huh?”_

_Becca’s laughter was wild as she tried to shove her brother off of her, hands frantic, begging him to stop. Her laughter was infectious, the worst of the world blanched out to a hazy background when Rebecca Barnes laughed._

 

He stares at his reflection once more, sweeping a hand across the nape of his neck. The hair is short and scrubs against his palms in a familiar way. At least, he knows it’s supposed to be familiar. Currently, his hair doesn’t have the vivacity that it used to, not piled high with pomade that he’d traded pocket change for. James Buchanan Barnes had taken immense pride in his hair. Bucky was just glad that for once he looked like he was supposed to. 


End file.
